


Beasts of the Field

by karmadog



Series: Icarus [3]
Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gunshot Wounds, Hunters & Hunting, Post-Curse, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-01 20:40:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11494332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmadog/pseuds/karmadog
Summary: The tables are turned when the Beast is hunted down in the forest by someone he knows.





	1. Hunted

He had never ventured this far before.  Not since the curse, anyway.  But prey was becoming scarce, and every week the Beast was forced to roam further afield to locate food.  He had absolutely no way of knowing by this point how long winter had covered his grounds, but he knew that it had certainly been long enough to force most of the woodland creatures to relocate to warmer climes.

Time was measured in rose petals instead of days now.

His nose to the hard ground, the Beast followed the scent of deer that was inevitably tied up with the scent of the local wolf pack--the scarcity of food had been a source of great competition between them, but a full stomach was worth the occasional scrap.  The Beast had taken to rubbing his scruff in foul-smelling things to cover the thick scent of his fur.  This had seemed to lessen the conflicts between him and the pack, but the scars from old wolf bites still marred his coat.

The life of the foppish, prodigal prince seemed so far away from him now that he could not help but think of him as an entirely different person--if what he was now could even be considered a person.

This time, there was a new scent in the mix--new, and yet familiar.  The Beast cocked his head in interest.  Part of him instinctively knew that the best course of action would be to stay well away from this foreign element, but a larger part of him could not help but be overcome by curiosity.  So little broke up the monotonous days of this depressive life that curiosity could be piqued by the smallest of things.

As he loped towards the smell, it suddenly became obvious what he was tracking: humans.  He could hear their voices as he neared, and his heart leapt in his chest with something he hadn’t felt in quite a while: joy.  Of course, he could have seeked out humans a long time ago through the enchanted book, or even just taken a trip to the nearest village.  He knew, however, that his appearance would utterly horrify any human he came across, and so he had elected to remain sequestered in his lonely tower.  But seeking out humans and coming across humans on his grounds felt like two wildly different situations, and he felt justified in revealing himself to them in the latter case.

Idly, he wondered when he had started to think of other humans as  _ them _ .

He broke into a fully fledged gallop, stopping just out of sight of the party and lifting himself back onto two legs.  The position was becoming more and more uncomfortable with every fallen petal, but even he had to admit that it was necessary in this situation.  Giving himself a once-over, he realized just how shockingly unlike a prince he appeared--and that wasn’t even taking into account the horns and tail.  He wore only a pair of loose breeches, having forgone shirts what must have been several weeks ago.  He had not even brought along his winter cloak, as it only hindered him during the hunt; besides, that was becoming worn and hardly of any use anymore anyways.  His fur, which even after all of these months the Beast cringed to look at, was matted and covered in dried blood and mud.

The Beast started at the sound of barking.  Peering through the underbrush, it became clear that this was not just any band of humans--it was a hunting party.  It was a rather small one, consisting of only three people: a portly man, a man in an old military uniform who looked strangely familiar, and--the Beast started--his own younger brother, the Comte Edgar-Narcisse.

It had been only a few months before the curse had set in that the Beast, then Adam, had last seen his half-brother--and an awkward reunion it had been.  Adam’s father had married the young countess who had been his mistress shortly after the death of Adam’s mother.  The countess had died not a year later giving birth to Narcisse.  Due to age and heritage difference, Adam and Narcisse had not spent nearly as much time together in their youth as one would expect of brothers.  Adam had been raised in the cursed castle that had once served as the family’s summer grounds, while Narcisse had been raised near Paris.  As such, there had never been much love between the two, but neither had there been an undue amount of strife.  The Beast wondered what Narcisse was doing here--the Enchantress had expressly mentioned that all of the inhabitants of his castle-turned-prison were forgotten in the minds of those outside.  It dawned on him, though, that the castle itself may not have been forgotten by the family that owned it.

This changed the situation.  Dare he reveal himself in this form to a brother that had no recollection of him?  The Beast could not believe that, if Narcisse was reminded of his own brother, he would not remember him at all.

“A bit blustery even for early fall, isn’t it?” Narcisse said, reining his horse in.

“You’d be surprised how cold it can get in these parts,” the soldier said, his voice booming through the quiet forest.

“I must thank you again for welcoming me into your household,” continued the count.  “There was simply no possibility of reaching the chateau before sunset.  Besides, this gives us a chance to catch up, eh, Gaston?”

Ah, yes.  The decorated war veteran who had killed enough Portuguese pirates to earn himself a fair-sized manor and a fringe spot in high society.  Enough that his hospitality could be taken advantage of by lesser nobles.

It mattered not.  Narcisse would know that his brother was nearby, that he was imprisoned in his own castle, regardless of who else was present.  He moved into the forest path just slightly, hoping to ease the party into his presence.

It was then that everything went awry.

The portly man pointed in the Beast’s direction with a shout of “ _ ours _ !” and his companions immediately turned about with their muskets raised.  It took the Beast a few moments to process what was happening, a few moments that cost him dearly.  He turned tail and dropped to all fours, crashing through the forest with hounds at his heels.

With the exception of that fateful night upon which the Enchantress had paid him a visit, the Beast had never felt such pure terror.  His blood pounded in his ears as his paws pounded against the ground.   _ He was being hunted.  He was being hunted. _

They thought he was a bear.  Oh, what a fool he had been!  Even through the gripping fear, there was still enough room left in the Beast’s heart to be devastated by the fact that his own brother had mistaken him for a  _ bear _ .  What was even more devastating, though, was that he wasn’t that far off.  The carcasses littered around the castle grounds proved that the resemblance no longer stopped at appearance.

He could stop.  He could turn around now and call out for Narcisse to halt before he murdered his own brother.

The Beast’s steps faltered for just a moment as this option crossed his mind, and immediately a fiery pain ripped through his hide.  He fell to the ground in a heap, his thick horns clattering against the frosted soil.  Pure adrenaline pulled him to his feet again.   _ He had been shot _ .  And he would be shot again if he did not keep moving.  Although not quite as all-consuming as his agonizing transformation, the pain of the gunshot was beyond comprehension.  He pulled himself into a denser part of the forest, one that the horses would not be keen to follow.  His right hind-quarter dragged behind him.  Making every effort to move as quickly yet as quietly as possible, the Beast listened for signs that the party still followed him.

“Are you sure that was a bear?  It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before,” Narcisse’s voice issued from a dozen yards away.  The Beast listened with bated breath.  “I could have sworn I saw horns…”

“What I do see is snow in early October,” came the soldier’s booming voice.  “And it quite abruptly begins on what I believe to be your grounds,  _ monsieur le comte _ .  What has happened to this place?”

“I don’t know; that’s why I returned,” Narcisse replied.  “I’ve seen neither hide nor tail of  _ le prince de Beaumont _ since this past summer.  He has not returned any correspondence.  Our father is becoming worried that he will not answer the annual summons to Versailles, which would lose our family favor with His Royal Majesty.  He sent me to fetch my brother directly.”

So.  He was remembered in the outside world.  What had the Enchantress said?   _ You will be forgotten in the minds of your loved ones _ .  Well, that explained it: the Beast had no loved ones to forget him.

After a few moments, Narcisse spoke up again.  “Let us return to your manor.  This puts me ill at ease and I would like to prepare before holding an audience with my brother.”

With a clatter of hooves the party moved away, leaving the Beast with no distraction against the pain of the gunshot wound.  He grit his teeth and allowed a whimper to escape his throat.  He had to get back to the castle.  Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to see Lumière, Cogsworth, and, of course, Mrs. Potts.  He wanted to throw himself into Mrs. Potts’s arms again like a little boy, he wanted her to brush away the pain and the tears.  Never mind that she had nothing resembling arms anymore.

She must hate him.  They must all hate him.  The servants that he had grown up with, the servants that he had been taught not to speak to, the servants who had glanced away when his father beat him and ridiculed him.  Of course they would hate him.  He had ruined their lives.  If it weren’t for the fact that he was needed to break the curse, they would rejoice in his death, the Beast was sure.

He wondered if his death would free them from their fate.

Of course, he could not take that chance.  If he was wrong, it would spell disaster for them all.  He dragged himself to all fours and began limping home.  The fire in his hindquarter blossomed up his spine and reached every corner of his brain.  Tears stung at his eyes and dampened his fur as he made his way laboriously through the underbrush.

He nearly wept with relief when the castle came into view.  Crawling up to the double front doors, he slumped unceremoniously at their base.  The doors were at once welcoming and foreboding, and as the Beast looked up at them, working up the energy to pull the heavy doors open, he was struck with the imagery of the Enchantress looking up at these doors with the same hope and helplessness that flooded his heart now.  Of course, she hadn’t been helpless, he knew that now, but he hadn’t known that when he had turned her away.

Groaning with pain and regret, the Beast butted his large, twisted horns against the doors, hoping desperately that someone would hear him.  His prayers were answered when the stoic coat rack that had once been his valet opened the door.

There was a commotion that the Beast barely registered as Chapeau alerted the rest of the staff of the situation.

“Oh,  _ mon prince _ , what happened?” came Lumière’s voice.

“I was--I was shot,” the Beast gasped.

“What?”

“By whom?

“Hunters.  Narcisse.  They mistook me for a bear.”  The Beast’s voice choked on the last few words.

The staff muttered at this.

Finally Mrs. Potts said, “Do you think you can get yourself up to your chambers, dearie?  None of us can support you.”  Turning around, she leapt immediately into action with all the fervor of a general commanding his men.  “Plumette, we’ll need warm, wet towels.  Lumière, light the fireplace in the West Wing.  Chapeau, go with him and help the Master into bed, and get those trousers off.  I’ll fetch whiskey from the cellars.”

With encouragement from Chapeau and Lumière, the Beast lifted himself to his paws again and crawled up the stairs.  He faded in and out of consciousness on the way, and when at last he found himself lying with his head against the bed, he was not entirely sure how he had come to be there.

Chapeau and Lumière did as they had been ordered to by Mrs. Potts, working his bloodied breeches off of him and pushing him into bed.  It was quite an ordeal due to the fact that Lumière was less than a foot tall and neither of them had any hands.  The Beast was in far too much pain to feel the sting of humiliation at being so revealed to his servants in his monstrous form, but he was lucid enough to feel the jolt of unease as he was handled by animate household objects.  He immediately felt a pang of regret at this reaction; it was not their fault the servants had been trapped in such uncanny forms.

In his semi-delirious state, the Beast mumbled a short apology.  The two servants stopped in surprise.  Then Lumière said quietly, “It wasn’t your fault you were shot, Master.  And it is not something to apologize to  _ us _ for, certainly, excepting that it has caused us to worry about you so.”

The Beast wanted to specify that that had not been what he had been referring to, but he was too caught off guard by his maître d’s gentle words.

At that moment Mrs. Potts rattled in on her cart with Plumette close behind, bearing hot water, towels, and--thank God--whiskey.  The Beast wondered where she had managed to unearth it from.  In the first week after the curse had set in, the Beast had tried drinking away his despair, slobbering through stores of port wine with a mouth that did not move the way he had remembered.  But it had not worked at all--this form was so large and beastly that it was very difficult for him to become inebriated, and his new stomach that could so easily digest raw meat did not digest alcohol very well.  Not soon after that it had occurred to the Beast that his servants could not drink away their woes, anyways, and he had guiltily closed the cellars and had not returned.  Perhaps Mrs. Potts had hidden away the strongest drink during this period, with her uncanny ability to always be prepared for any situation that might arise.  There was a searing sensation as the whiskey was poured onto his bleeding hind leg, and he could not suppress a roar of agony.  He bucked without thinking, only just keeping himself from throwing his porcelain housemaid off of the bed.  Mrs. Potts muttered some soothing words and moved to pour the rest of the whiskey down his throat as Plumette washed away the worst of the wound.

He wanted to weep.  He wanted to sob to Mrs. Potts that they had mistaken him for a bear, that he had been hunted like a lowly animal, that he had been shot down like a dog in the forest and left to bleed to death.  He wanted to be comforted, he wanted to be assured that, even if he had died, his horns wouldn’t have ended up above his brother’s hearth and his pelt wouldn’t have been trod upon by any guest the soldier chose to entertain.

But men, especially noblemen, did not show such emotion, least of all to their servants.  And God damn it, he was still a man.

Eventually he drifted off, not really to sleep, but into a painful lack of consciousness.  Into dreams of red and deepest black.


	2. Two Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Potts reflects on the events that led them to this point as she tends to her former charge.

As Mrs. Potts studied the sleeping form of the creature that was her  _ petit prince _ , she reflected.

Had she known the doom that awaited her small family when she had been hired on as a chambermaid by the prince’s grandmother, all those years ago in her green and lush home country of England, she would have of course found other work.  She had been employed by the prince’s maternal line for so long, however, that she couldn’t imagine any other life.  Her own mother had worked for the household, and the loyalty had simply been passed down through the line.  She had travelled all over Europe with the noble family--first with the prince’s grandmother to Spain, where she had married a Spanish marquess and bore the prince’s mother, la Marquesa Maria-Isabel de Chinchilla.  And then she had married that--well, Mrs. Potts had picked up at least one word in her years in Spain--cabrón, and it had been off to France with the entire family.

She remembered the day she first met  _ le Duc de Beaumont _ .  She remembered taking an immediate dislike to him.  She remembered assisting the marchioness with her toilette on the day of her wedding and feeling a persisting sense of foreboding.  Here was this young, blushing woman who was little more than a girl, a girl that she had cared for since she was a young girl herself, a girl that was going to be married off to a cold, cruel man that Mrs. Potts didn’t trust as far as she could spit.

She watched as little by little the duke wore away the youthful blush from the duchess’s cheeks and turned her laugh lines into those of worry.  Despite her family’s near poverty, Mrs. Potts never once envied the life of a noblewoman.  The duchess had been a trinket more than Mrs. Potts would ever be, porcelain handle and all.

Adam had been born not long after their marriage, and that had seemed to at least bring some light back into the duchess’s life.  She may not have felt affection for the duke, but she at least had felt affection for what had come of their union.

And she was not alone in this.  The staff had quickly grown to love the little prince.  He took after his mother in many ways.  The staff was responsible for his rearing, and so the staff had been family to him.

Mrs. Potts had been shocked and saddened to see what became of his upbringing after the death of his mother.  As the prince approached manhood, the duke’s sternness towards the manner in which his son comported himself increased tenfold.  Mrs. Potts and the rest of the staff had watched as the duke’s frustration with his only heir’s buoyant and whimsical nature and the young prince’s desperation to gain his father’s approval had increased in concert with each other.

At one point, it had been as if a candle had simply been snuffed out, as if one day the prince had simply given up fighting his father.  It must have been after one of the numerous fights between the duke and his son, although Mrs. Potts couldn’t say why this one had been so important.  The boy had stalked down the stairs to dining table, decked in finery, his face hidden behind a decent amount of rouge.  As Mrs. Potts had set out the breakfast tea, she had stopped beside him and discreetly whispered a query as to whether everything was alright.  The prince had glanced at her, glanced at his father, turned back to her and scolded her for her impertinence.  Mrs. Potts could not say what devastated her more, the boy’s response or his look of relief and pride when his father looked at him with a rare expression of approval.  She stopped asking after his welfare after that.  She had her own boy now to attend to, and, although it pained her to see what was becoming of the duchess’s only son, he was out of her hands.

Mrs. Potts hadn’t really noticed how bad it had gotten by the fateful night of the curse.  It was only after the Enchantress’s words rang in her ears that it dawned on her how drastically the boy, now a man, had changed over the last decade.

She had watched in disbelief and horror as the transformation had taken place.  Her own transformation had been terrifying due to the lack of feeling it caused--her whole body had numbed, she had been unable to breathe, she had been paralyzed and helpless.  But the prince’s transformation had come first, and she could still hear the agonized screams.  She thought the image of his body bursting from its fine clothing, of his legs breaking and reforming, would never fully leave her mind.  Before her boy had been born, he had been the closest thing she had to a son.  Perhaps that is why she had fallen to her knees before the Enchantress and begged for the selfish, vain prince to be spared.  Because when she saw him lying there, broken and afraid, she had seen, not the lavish prince, but the little boy who had been her charge and responsibility.

She had been horrified, devastated, and hopeless when she had realized that, not just herself, but her little boy had been cursed along with the prince.  But she could not bring herself to blame her Adam.  Many of the servants, those less close to him, did indeed hate him for the chain by which they were tied to his fate.  But unlike many of the lower staff, she had been privy to the process that had led him down that path, had watched as the mask that he had worn to please his father had gradually become, no longer a mask, but who he was.  She wondered if he realized that even now, but she knew it was much easier to understand the forces affecting others than those affecting oneself.

The curse had been meant to punish everyone in the castle, but it had been meant specifically to humiliate Adam-François.  Mrs. Potts watched with sympathy as the boy was forced to behave more and more like an animal with the passing months.  The rest of the staff had involuntarily cringed when he had first dragged in a bloody deer through the front halls, but Mrs. Potts had steeled herself for it.  Adam had lashed out in anger at the situation, but his old nursemaid could see the shame and humiliation in those blue eyes.  It was an expression he had worn quite frequently when his father would berate or punish him in front of the staff, and it looked the same on the face of the chimera he was now as it had on the face of the youth he had been then.

And now he had been hunted.  Mistaken for a bear and shot down.  Mrs. Potts couldn’t imagine that would be good for his morale.  When he had first come in, bleeding and gasping in pain, and Mrs. Potts had heard what had transpired, her heart had fallen (or it would have, if she’d had one).  Of course she worried that he’d survive--he was their only hope of breaking the curse--but even if he did survive, she worried that this would be a blow that would be hard for him to recover from.

Adam grunted and rolled over, those large horns of his catching on the pillows as he did so.  Mrs. Potts rolled over to him quietly.  “How are you feeling?”

Adam didn’t look at her, electing to gaze into the fireplace instead.  His only response was to chuff sourly.

In the wake of Adam’s silence, Mrs. Potts continued, “We didn’t take the bullet out, it didn’t seem worth the risk.  You should rest up for the next few days.”  Adam shifted his gaze with an embarrassed expression that the old nursemaid recognized through the fur.  “What is it, Master?”  He mumbled something unintelligible.  “Pardon?”

“What will I do for food?  I’m assuming hunting is off the table for the next few days.”  Adam turned away, frowning.

“I’ve been speaking with Cogsworth and Lumière about that.  We’re thinking of setting out traps.  It won’t be much, but it will tide you over.”  Mrs. Potts hesitated before continuing, then went ahead with her jest.  “I’m sure when we’re all human again, you won’t fancy a hunt quite like before, eh?”

It had most definitely been the wrong thing to say.  Although he was turned from her, Adam’s broad shoulders shook slightly in silent grief.  Mrs. Potts hurried to rectify her mistake.  “Oh dear, I didn’t mean--”

“It’s never going to happen,” Adam said in a low voice thick with emotion.

“What’s never going to happen?”

“The curse is never going to break.  Don’t tell me you actually have hope that it will.  For God’s sake, look at me!”  Adam whipped around, his unnatural yellow fangs bared.  Then his face fell and he turned away again.  “It’s a goddamn joke, the stipulations for breaking the curse.  Even if I had the purest character, I could win over no one as this--this animal.  And we both know that my character is far from pure.”  The last sentence was said quietly, shamefacedly.

Mrs. Potts hardened.  “You best not take that line with me, boy.  We are all relying on you.   _ My son _ is relying on you.  My innocent boy, who didn’t deserve any of this.  If there’s no hope for you, then there’s no hope for him, either.”

Adam squeezed his eyes shut at this.  “Mrs. Potts, I…”  He took a shuddering breath.

Mrs. Potts softened again.  “After all, I care for you.”

Adam sighed.  After a while, he said hesitantly, “Am I...do you...am I a creature to you?”

“Why, how silly.  Am I a teapot to you?  Now you best watch your answer, young man.”

Adam gave the barest ghost of a smile at this.  “No, ma’am.”

“I hate to say it, Prince Paul-Pierre Adam-François de Beaumont, but you will always be a little boy to me, a little boy who never paid any attention to his lessons and never did learn how to tie a cravat properly at that.”

Adam’s blue eyes widened at this, and he spluttered a bit.  “I...I do know how--that is absolutely ridiculous!”

Mrs. Potts laughed gaily at this.  “Now, you rest up, Master.  You need to be back up and catching your own food before too long.  I’ll bring up a spot of tea in a bit.”

Adam’s eyes were closed again, but he frowned.  “You know...Narcisse will be coming soon, and he might bring Fa--the Duke along with him.  What do we do then?”  His voice was laced with the beginnings of sleep.

“I must confess I don’t rightly know,” Mrs. Potts responded.  “I suppose we will have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”  She paused and mused over the issue.  Eventually, she said, “It’ll be a right shock for the two of them when they walk through those doors, that’s for certain.”  When she received no response, she looked over at the hulking form beside her, which was already breathing slowly in sleep.  She sighed.  “Good night,  _ mon petit prince _ .  We will overcome this trial, I promise you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was short and probably full of way too much prose, but I think the potential mother/son relationship between Mrs Potts and Adam is interesting. Also, like some other writers (cough, cough, Never a Happily Ever After) I assumed Adam's father was a duke because French nobility research. And I wanted to have him be alive during this whole curse fiasco, because I thought the idea of his father's knowing of this issue and his subsequent abandonment of him would lead to some more delightful ask. Hope you are all okay with that piece of plot! And thanks for reading:)


	3. Prodigal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prince's father pays a visit.

It had been several days since the Beast had been shot, and he was now up and about again for small amounts of time.  As far as gunshot wounds went, he supposed it had not been all that bad.  No vital organs had been hit, the wound had not become infected.  It bothered him to know that there was still a piece of lead lodged in his flesh somewhere, though, and walking was still an ordeal.  But he had at least been able to begin hunting again, however wary he was of returning to the forest.

The entire castle had been on edge waiting for Narcisse to reappear, possibly even with the duke.  As it was, the highest staff saw three possible outcomes to the duke’s discovery of the curse: he would not believe that the cursed animal and objects in front of him were his own son and staff and would turf them out of the castle or possibly destroy them; he would believe in the curse and would still evict or destroy them; or, and this was the best case scenario, he would believe in the curse, would abruptly disown his son, forget about that particular piece of estate, lie to the world of his son’s fate, and abandon them all to their eventual deaths.  No one, least of all the master of the castle, harbored any hope that the duke would come to their aid or provide any assistance whatsoever.

When the day finally did come that the monotony of the curse was broken by this unwelcome but expected call, the Beast was curled up in the drawing room in front of a roaring fire that his maîtr d’ had lit, his tail wrapped in a comforting manner around him.  His ears perked at a whinny outside before he remembered that the horses were still in the stables.  He had found out a week after the laying of the curse that it was only the living things inside the house that had been cursed, and that the fortunate horses were still just that.  He had found this out upon visiting them, whereupon they had taken quite a fright to his new form and created such a huge ruckus that he had abruptly walked away, not bearing the sight of their fear.  He felt guilty that he had not thought of them in so long--obviously they had not run out of hay and the servants were still making sure that they were fed.  The Beast wondered what they would do when the hay finally did run out.

It wasn’t until Cogsworth stumbled into the room frantically, followed by Lumière, Plumette, and Mrs. Potts, that the Beast realized he had been absent-mindedly licking his wound.  He stopped immediately, abashed and disgusted.

“What the devil is it, Cogsworth?” he barked, trying to regain some modicum of dignity.

“Sir, it’s  _ le comte  _ Edgar-Narcisse out in the courtyard--and he’s brought the Duke!”

The Beast bolted upright so quickly he nearly tripped over his tail.

“Hide, all of you!  I’ll deal with this,” he growled.  “No need to introduce them to more than one impossibility at a time.”

The staff looked at each other with dubious expressions that betrayed their lack of trust for him to handle any situation properly, and the Beast growled quietly in annoyance.  The staff seemed to decide as one to surrender to his judgement, as they immediately turned and headed back out through the door through which they had come.

The Beast straightened as much as he could with a back made for walking on all fours and made his way towards the grand front doors.  Unbidden, the memory of doing the same for that witch all those months ago rose to the front of his mind, and his heart began to race as he reached for the door.

His hand--his paw--was but a few inches from the ornate handles when it clenched into a fist.  No.  He could not do this.  He could not open the door and face his father like this.  If his father would see him, he would have to come to him.

Instead, he limped back over to the fire and stood turned towards it, but with an eye on the door.

He didn’t have to wait very long before an insistent knocking broke the tense silence.  The Beast winced as the muffled shouts of the Duke eventually rang through the doors.  “What is the meaning of this?  No servants to tend to our horses, we’ve been standing out here for ages!  We know something is amiss here, now open the damn door!”

The Beast suppressed an eye roll as he waited for his father to realize that no one was going to open the doors.  There was a muttering of voices outside before finally the knob turned.  He steeled himself and turned around.

The steely grey eyes of his father met his own.  For a moment they were steeped in confusion, before the duke raised his walking stick in a threatening gesture and pointed it at his son.  “What the hell…” he spluttered as Narcisse shouted in shock.  The duke backed away, still wielding the cane.

The Beast raised a massive paw to halt his father’s speech.  “It’s me, your Highness.  It’s your son.”

“It talks!” the duke shouted.

“Of course I talk, you bloody fool, it’s me!  Adam-François!”  The whole scene would have been hilarious if it were almost any other situation.   _ It _ .  The Beast scowled and suppressed a growl.

The duke’s eyes somehow widened and narrowed at the same time in his disbelief.  “You...you...what are you?”

The Beast sighed in exasperation and said, slowly and with emphasis, “I.  Am.  Your.  Son.  Paul-Pierre Adam-François de Beaumont.”

The Duke swore in more colorful language than Adam had ever heard him use, expressing his disbelief in several different languages before Adam interrupted him.

“A curse was laid on this castle over…” the Beast quickly tallied in his head, “...five months ago.  A faery woman visited me during a summer ball and…” the Beast gestured helplessly at himself, unsure how to put his predicament into words.

“You expect me to believe that?!  To believe in--in faeries and, and curses?”

“Well you don’t really have a choice, do you?  Exactly how else do you explain what you see?”

At that moment, the count stepped past his father in a bold move and came right up to the Beast, studying him from horns to tail tip.  The Beast shrunk back, feeling like a creature at a zoological garden.  He supposed that wasn’t that far off, really.

“You’re what I saw in the forest, weren’t you?” Narcisse said slowly, eventually looking into his eyes.

The Beast lowered those eyes to stare at his large hind paws, unable to meet his brother’s gaze.  Slowly, he raised his arm and exposed his side to Narcisse, displaying the still healing wound.

“So I did hit the mark,” Narcisse commented idly, and suddenly the Beast wanted to growl, to roar at his brother’s callousness.  He spoke of the shot as if he had just downed a hunting prize, not even bothering to do so while the target in question was out of earshot, as if he was subhuman.  He felt a tingling run down his spine, and realized with disgust that his hackles were raised.

“Yes, you did, Narcisse.  And it hurt like the devil.  Well done.  Remember when I taught you to hunt as a lad?  Well, it makes me proud to say you’ve finally beat me at my own game,” the Beast spat, turning away bitterly.

Narcisse backed away and turned to their father.  “It’s him, Father.  It’s Adam-François.”  To the Beast’s surprise, the count sounded slightly shaken.

There was a silence that seemed to stretch on forever.  Finally, the duke broke it.  “How did this happen?” he said, utter disbelief lacing his voice.  The Beast had never heard his father sound so unsure, and it disturbed him in a way he could not explain.

He found that he could not bring himself readily to explain the circumstances around the curse.  He had been cursed for turning away an old woman from his grounds.  But no, that had not really been it, had it?  But how could he admit to his father that this, the ruin of his life, this shameful creature that he was now, was all due to his own arrogance and vanity?  He remained facing away from them as he spoke, haltingly.  “An enchantress appeared to me last summer during a ball, disguised.  She tested me,” he said, for he realized now that that had been what it was, simply a test, she had already known his nature.  “She had begged for shelter for one night, and I turned her away.  I…”  He had mocked her.  Surrounded by sycophantic beauty, he had mocked her openly, had humiliated her.  “When she revealed herself, she cursed me for my...for the way in which I lived my life.  In her words, she “allowed the flesh to reveal what dwelt inside.”

When no one spoke, the Beast continued.  “As I’m sure you’ve noted, the entire castle is cursed.  She cursed the staff as well...that is why they do not reveal themselves.”

“Are they animals, too?” Narcisse asked, somewhat impertinently in the Beast’s opinion.

“No!” the Beast countered immediately, chagrined at the use of the term.  “No, they are not ‘animals’.  Would that they were,” he muttered.  “It would be better, all things considered.”

The duke drew himself up.  “Although I am not admitting belief to this outrageous tale, if you have been cursed, there must be some way to break it.”

The Beast gave a mirthless bark of laughter at this.  “There is indeed a way to break it.  There are stipulations to the curse.”

“Well?”

He shook his head.  “They are a joke.  The curse is unbreakable.  There is no way in Heaven or on Earth that I will be able to meet her requirements.”

“Don’t avoid the question, boy!  What are the requirements?”

He growled and muttered, “I have to learn to love, and to earn someone’s love in return.”

“Speak up, boy.”

A roar split the air as the Beast turned around.  “I have to learn to love and to earn someone’s love in return!”

The duke stumbled back with uncharacteristic indignity in the face of his son’s outburst.  Narcisse’s face fell.  The Beast smirked sourly.

“So you see, there is no breaking the curse.”

The duke studied his son’s face for a long time before speaking.  His tone was purposeful as he said, “I always knew you would fail in some spectacular way, boy.  Never could I have imagined this, but I have always known.  You are a disgrace,” he spat.  “And you are no son of mine.”

Backing away, the duke brandished his cane at the Beast.  “You can keep this estate, seeing as you’ve rendered it completely useless.  No one will know the truth of what you have done to yourself.  Not at court, anyways.  You have taken a serious illness and are unable to travel.”  The duke scoffed, saying, “I might as well tell them you are dead.  You are right, you are never going to lift this curse.”

The Beast shrunk back involuntarily at this.  Even as a seven-foot tall, fanged monster he could not help but cower in the presence of this man who even now held his very life in his hands.

“Come, Narcisse,” the duke beckoned to his son.  “Let us leave this godforsaken place.”

The Beast’s eyes snapped up at this.  He had to do something.  He knew the disdain with which his father had always held him, but even he could not be so cruel as to simply leave him here without any shred of hope.  “No, Father, please--”

“Don’t you call me that, beast!” the duke shouted.  “This...this creature before me is not my heir.”  He paused to swipe back a lock of wig that had fallen into his face during his outburst.  “You have damned yourself, animal.”

“But, Father, the servants…!”

“Yes, you have damned them, too,” the duke said.  “Narcisse, come.”

Narcisse looked from his father to the Beast and back to his father again, concern in his eyes.  “Father, we can’t just leave--”

“Excuse me, young man?”

“We…” the count’s glance darted around again.  “We...can’t just leave, there are family heirlooms and various other valuables in the house.  If you are going to abandon it completely, we must at least take that into account.”  He didn’t meet his brother’s eyes as he said this, and the Beast found himself sympathizing.  He tried to convey through his expression that he understood, that one didn’t just argue with their father, but he wasn’t sure he got his point across through all of the fur.

But the duke surveyed his younger son as though he knew exactly what the boy had been about to say.  He scoffed in disgust and said, “You will touch nothing in this wretched place, Edgar-Narcisse.  Come, before the coachman begins to suspect something.”

Looking defeated, Narcisse followed his father out the front doors as if tied to the man by an invisible lead.  His eyes flicked to the monster behind him briefly before the door closed and the Beast was left in silence once again.

The silence did not last long before Lumière traipsed back into the room with the other servants on his brass heels.  “Well, Master, that did not go so badly, did it?”

The Beast tossed his maître d’ a glare that caused even that ever-optimistic man to falter for a moment.  He caught Mrs Pott’s expression of sympathy as he did so, raising his ire even more.  With a growl, the Beast turned away and stalked through the front doors through which his father and brother had just left.  The back of the coach was just disappearing as he stepped into the snow.

He stood there for several minutes, staring into the storm, gazing at the spot from which his father’s coach had disappeared.  Then suddenly, without warning after the silence, he turned his face to the sky and roared so thunderously that the enormous front bay windows trembled in their frames.  It ripped through his altered throat in a way that still shocked him, so animalistic and raw.  He wondered if he would ever become use to it.

_ You are right, you are never going to lift this curse. _

He suddenly envisioned the snowy courtyard before him, not as a courtyard, but as the empty years that undoubtedly stretched before him.  He was trapped here.  He was to be forever a prisoner on his own opulent grounds, diminished to a drooling, snarling creature.  Today his link to the outside world, the world where even the meanest commoner was free, had been severed.

His servants.  His staff were the only company he would have for the rest of his life.

_ Yes, you have damned them, too _ .

And in time they would perish, no, they would not perish, they would be trapped in their own horrid, inanimate forms.  And he would be left with no one and nothing but guilt to accompany him throughout the long, long years.

Trudging through the snow towards the stables, his father’s admonitions continued to ring through his head, just as they had always done.   _ You have damned yourself, animal _ .

_ Animal _ .

As he neared the stables, the horses began to whinny in fear, catching the scent of his fur and musk.  He pushed through the doors with a bang, and the din became almost intolerable.  He looked towards his favorite mare, Dignité.  How many times they had gone out riding together.  She was magnificent, especially during the hunt, the sun filtering through the leaves and glinting off of her warm brown coat.

The Beast closed his eyes against the traumatic memory of the last hunt to which he had been witness.

He raised a paw to pet the mare, and noted with a muted but deep sadness how the color of his own fur greatly reflected hers.

Before he could even reach her flank, she whinnied in terror, and the Beast drew his paw back.

_ This creature before me is not my heir _ .

The Beast wanted to wail for shame.  What had he been about to do?  Pet another animal as if it was his?  Run his fingers over her fur?  As if he himself was not even more of a beast than she was?

He was not a prince anymore.  He was not the son of a duke, he was heir to no titles.  He was lower than the commoners who lived on his land and had paid taxes to him.  And in his heart he knew that he was lower than even the servants who had been cursed along with him, for it was he who had spelled out their fate.  He was to become a beast in mind and body; he wondered how long it would before the very staff that served him would have to care for and keep him as they cared for and kept these horses--or would they even live to see when that day came?  A prince owned and kept magnificent beasts such as the mare before him, a wild animal did not.

Without further thought, he slashed through the tether binding the mare to her stall with one of his roughened claws, and continued to do the same with the rest of the horses.  This would have to have been done at one point anyways--they would run out of hay someday, and the endless snow had killed any grass the horses might find on their own.

Every horse bolted as soon as they were freed--every horse, that was, except for dear Dignité.  She paused before leaving the stables, looking confusedly back at the Beast, and for a moment he fancied she might have a suspicion, a hint, that he had been her rider for the majority of her life.

Of course, that was ridiculous.  “Go, get out of here!” the Beast roared, turning back towards the stables sullenly as the mare took heed and galloped away.

The Beast reentered the stables and looked around at the now empty stalls, shaking his head.  All a waste.  The expensive education he had received as a young man, all of the languages he had learned, the classics he’d read, his skill with the rapier and musket--all a goddamn waste.

Dreading returning to the castle where his staff would immediately want to review the situation regarding the duke, where they would refer to him as “Master” and play pretend that he was a man and a prince at that and not an animal, the Beast curled up on the dusty ground of the stable.  He knew he was being maudlin.  Even he had to admit that.  He didn’t really care.

Outside, the wind and wolves howled as if in harmony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I've always found scenes regarding the discovery of an impossible thing very difficult to write realistically, so please give feedback and advice:) This is the end of this work in the series. There will probably be one or two more works in the series to wrap it up, so if this one was okay at all, please keep your eyes peeled for the next one! And yes, I am writing the Beast fairly emo. For that I apologize...(although not really, I love to write ze angst).:)

**Author's Note:**

> Many writers in this fandom have mentioned in passing that the Prince might have been hunted once or twice during his tenure as a beast, so I decided to write a narration exploring that. This part of the series is multi-chapter, so if you liked this, look for updates! And pretty please check out the rest of this series, Icarus, too:) Thanks to all who have given kudos and commented on this series so far, it keeps me writing!


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